


April, 1944

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Are you alright?’ John said quietly, shifting further along the edge of the bath and threading his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. ‘You weren’t yourself yesterday.’ </i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, grabbing the bright orange coal tar soap from next to the tap. ‘Yes, I’m perfectly alright.’</i>
</p><p>WWII AU. April, 1944. A few interesting conversations are had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April, 1944

_April, 1944_

‘Here,’ John said, handing Sherlock a cup of coffee by its saucer. He sat down on the edge of the bath, which Sherlock was in, the water just reaching the top of his thighs. 

It was another nice day after last night’s rain and just enough light crept in through the boarded-up windows for there to be no need to have the electric light on overhead. The water splashed as Sherlock brought one knee up to his chest and sipped his coffee, closing his eyes whilst he drank.

‘Ten past nine, is it?’ Sherlock said quietly, eyes flicking to a crack in the boards at the windows. 

‘Ten past nine.’ John shifted closer to Sherlock, who rested his free hand on John’s leg and squeezed. He nodded and leant back against the bath, moving his shoulders up and down as he settled. 

Both men were quiet as Sherlock drank his coffee.

‘There’s no sugar in this,’ Sherlock said, lips against the rim of the cup, one eyebrow raised.

‘Stunning deduction,’ John said with a smile, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. ‘They had none at the shop, something about a sunken boat.’

Sherlock squeezed John’s thigh and put the cup and saucer in the sink. He sat back and closed his eyes again, tracing patterns on John’s leg with his finger for a quiet moment. 

The downstairs clock struck quarter past. 

‘Are you alright?’ John said quietly, shifting further along the edge of the bath and threading his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. ‘You weren’t yourself yesterday.’ 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, grabbing the bright orange coal tar soap from next to the tap. ‘Yes, I’m perfectly alright.’

Nodding, John guided Sherlock’s head to rest in his lap, bending to kiss his temple. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

The sink’s cold tap dripped slowly into the cup Sherlock had placed there. That and the quiet splashing Sherlock made as he skated his fingers along the surface of the bathwater were the only sounds in the small, high room. John played with the damp hair at Sherlock’s nape, rubbing with his thumb where Sherlock held his tension.

‘When do you go?’ John asked, though he knew the answer. ‘My God, it’ll be a happy day when I never have to ask you that again.’

Sherlock curled his hand around John’s trembling one, pulling it down to press his lips to it. 

‘It can’t be long now.’ John closed his eyes and lifted his face ceilingwards. ‘It _can’t_ be long.’

‘We’ll manage, if it is.’

The tap continued to drip. Sherlock held onto the soap and John’s hand and it was quiet for a very long time. 

***

Despite John’s best efforts, frustration and ennui set in and Sherlock left London the following morning, a day early. The rest of the day, after his bath, was spent sitting in the living room window, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes. He would have caught a train back to Bletchley save for the fact it was Easter Monday and there weren't any passenger trains running at all. Sherlock packed quickly on the Tuesday morning, kissed John's troubled face, and arrived back at the Park at one pm, just in time to eat whatever slop was being served in the dining hall. 

He ate a meagre bowlful of thin vegetable stew with half a slice of stale bread after slinging his case in his attic room. Lighting a cigarette, Sherlock pushed his bowl and plate to one side and sauntered out into the grounds, ignoring the hustle and bustle that went on around him. Technically, he was still on holiday until tomorrow morning and not due for a shift. He made his way over to his usual hut anyway.

'Mr. Holmes!' The girl who was manning the hatch controlling entry into the hut raised her eyebrows in surprise. 'We're not expecting you until tomorrow morning, I thought you were meant to be in London?'

'Verity, stop prying!' another female voice hissed, out of sight somewhere in the poky little office. Verity flushed and looked down at her desk, tucking an auburn curl behind her ear. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the freckles on the bridge of her nose, just visible underneath the wide brim of her uniform’s hat.

'Sorry, Mr. Holmes,' Verity said quietly, glancing back up at him. 'Would you like to come in? There's a machine free, rather more people took leave than the boss expected...'

‘Yes, Sherlock said. ‘Yes please, I would.’

Verity smiled and unlocked the door, pulling it inwards and gesturing Sherlock inside.

***

Sherlock worked until the shift ended at eight and handed his machine to the young woman taking over from him, tucking his notebooks and pen in his blazer pocket. He left the hut, pulling his coat and hat on for the short walk back to the house.

‘Sherlock!’ A slight figure pushed through the crowd leaving the adjacent hut and waved at him, smiling eagerly.

‘Hullo, Jimmy.’

‘How was your leave?’ Moriarty asked, putting his hands in his pockets as he caught up to Sherlock.

‘Pleasant enough. You been here?’ Sherlock remained facing forwards, breathing in the evening air, the surrounding countryside carrying notes of scent that were entirely alien to London and its fog.

‘Yeah,’ Moriarty said, his Irish lilt wrapping round the vowels in each word he said. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ He grinned up at Sherlock, struggling to keep pace.

Sherlock smiled fleetingly, glancing up at the indigo sky, strewn with stars. ‘Indeed.’

‘How was Sussex?’

For the first time, Sherlock’s eyes snapped to Moriarty’s and he frowned. ‘How did you know I was in Sussex?’

‘Oh, someone told me that’s where you were from originally, I assumed you’d go and visit your family over Easter,’ Moriarty said, brown eyes wide and innocent. ‘You’ve got a brother, haven’t you?’

Sherlock frowned again. ‘Yes, more’s the pity.’

‘I met him when I was getting cleared for this place. He doesn’t look like you.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not a four hundred stone _whale_.’

Moriarty cackled, pressing his hand against his mouth as he laughed. ‘Oh, that’s funny. You’re such a card, Sherlock.’ He giggled again, managing to calm himself as they stepped onto the main path up to the big house. ‘Did you see your... friend? Doctor Ibbotson, was it?’

‘Watson. Yes.’

‘Watson, that was it,’ Moriarty whispered to himself. ‘How’s his leg?’

‘Shoulder,’ Sherlock corrected automatically. His leg pain’s psychosomatic. No worse.’

‘Oh, good, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it.’ Moriarty followed Sherlock into the house. ‘Coming to dinner?’

‘I’ve already eaten today.’

‘You only eat once a day?’

‘Sometimes less. Good evening, Jimmy.’

‘Night, Sherlock!’ Moriarty called as Sherlock began to walk up the stairs, attracting a few bemused looks from their colleagues who were on their way to dinner. ‘It was nice talking with you!’ 

Sherlock waved his hand in a vague farewell and continued up to his room.

***

Back in London, John had just finished seeing to the blackout precautions when there was a knock at the front door. Mrs Hudson was still in Kent until tomorrow so John made his way clumsily down the stairs with his stick, flipping the lamp on in the hallway to better see who it was. He pulled the door open, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of Victor Trevor on the doorstep in civilian clothes, drenched through from the rain that had started to pour an hour ago.

‘I was told Sherlock lives here!’ he said, voice at a louder volume than it would ordinarily have been owing to the rain. 

‘He’s back on duty,’ John replied, eyebrows knitting, his right hand wrapped around the doorframe as he shielded most of his body behind it.

There was a pause, and Victor sniffed. ‘May I come in?’

John stepped back and opened the door a little wider. ‘You’d better. I’ll have the ARP warden round to give me a fine for the light if we carry on like this.’ He let Victor in and shut the door behind him. ‘It’s actually upstairs,’ John said, motioning. ‘But after you, I’ll only slow you down.’

Victor walked upstairs at a sedate pace, waiting for John to gesture into the flat before he went inside.

‘What are you doing here, Victor?’ John asked once they were standing opposite each other in the living room, still covered in Sherlock’s mess that John hadn’t got round to tidying up yet. Victor removed his sodden hat and glanced around, taking in the various bits of furniture and knick-knacks before answering. 

‘I just... I’d like to make amends. With Sherlock.’

‘It’s rather late for all of that, don’t you think?’ John straightened his back and widened his stance, easing the pressure on his leg. Victor’s gaze dropped to the floor. 

‘He told you, did he?’

John nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

‘Are you and he...’

‘Yes,’ John said shortly. Victor nodded. ‘Come on, take your coat off, you’ll catch your death.’

‘Oh, I won’t inconvenience you any longer, Doctor Watson. Although I don’t suppose...’

John raised an eyebrow.

‘I don’t suppose you could tell me where he’s stationed, could you?’

‘No,’ John said. ‘Even if I wanted to tell you, it’s classified.’

Victor nodded. ‘I don’t... I don’t want to... I’m not trying to... I’m very happily... I’d just like to tell him I’m sorry.’

‘He probably won’t want to hear it.’

‘No,’ Victor agreed with a sad laugh. His eyes caught on the picture of Sherlock in his Home Guard uniform, propped next to the telephone. He smiled briefly. ‘He looks pleased.’

‘Thinks it’s pointless. He doesn’t like the old dears who run his section.’

‘He never liked anyone, much.’

John smiled and leant back against the arm of his chair. ‘He still doesn’t.’

‘I can imagine. You’re lucky.’

John didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘I am,’ he said quietly, certainly. ‘So were you.’ He straightened up. ‘Don’t... don’t hurt him again. Please.’

Nodding, Victor fiddled with his hat. Some rain dripped off him onto the carpet, next to a burnt patch where Sherlock had had a mishap with some toenails and a bunsen burner and some sort of noxious gas. ‘I didn’t realise I had done. Not until... not until Sunday.’

‘He isn’t like he pretends to be,’ John said, shaking his head minutely.

‘You clearly know him far better than I ever did, Doctor Watson,’ Victor said quietly. ‘Thank you for speaking with me.’

John nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll see you out.’

Both men walked downstairs, Victor politely waiting for John in the hallway. He inclined his head towards John’s leg.

‘Boche?’

‘Ah--yes. Tunisia. Actually got shot in the shoulder, the leg’s nothing to do with...’ John trailed off, embarrassed.

Victor’s eyes were kind. ‘I understand,’ he said, stepping forwards and offering his hand. ‘You’re a very good man, Doctor Watson.’

John took Victor’s hand with a gentle squeeze and shook it. ‘Don’t go to him,’ he said quickly, surprising himself. ‘Write, if you need, but don’t ask Mycroft and...’ he sighed. ‘Just... please.’

Their hands dropped as the clock next to them struck half past nine. Victor looked at it and then at John. ‘It really wouldn’t do much good, would it?’ he murmured, resigned. 

‘No. No, I don’t think it would. And I don’t say that--’

‘No, no, I know, you’re right. Are you going to tell him I came?’

‘You say that as though he won’t figure it out,’ John said with a laugh.

Victor smiled, his perfect teeth showing briefly under his neat moustache. ‘Tell him I’m sorry, won’t you? I think we both know an envelope with my handwriting on it will end up in the fire.’

John chuckled. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him. I don’t know how much good it will do, but I will.’ He smiled. ‘You take care of your wife and your little ones. They’re lovely, your girls.’

Victor’s already kind eyes softened further. ‘Oh, aren’t they? I don’t deserve them.’

‘No. No, I rather think you do, Victor. Watch out for yourself in that plane of yours, too. You boys are indispensable.’

‘So are you, Doctor.’ Victor smiled. ‘And I’ll do my utmost.’ He shook John’s hand again. ‘Look after him, John.’

‘Couldn’t stop if I tried.’

‘You’re exactly what he needs,’ Victor said, very quietly, the look in his eyes sincere. ‘Take care of yourself, too. Don’t let that leg grind you down.’

John tapped his calf with the bottom of his walking stick. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Victor put his hat back on and lifted it to John before opening the door back onto the rain. ‘Thank you, John,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Really.’ He stepped down onto the pavement, his figure framed by the stack of sandbags on either side of him. ‘Cheerio, now.’

‘Take care.’ John waved and watched Victor to the end of the street before closing the door and locking it quietly behind him.


End file.
